Frequent Flyer Miles
by Ink On Paper
Summary: A collection of oneshots based around our favorite international partnership . . . . TIVA, of course.
1. Truth Or Consequences

**A/N: Hello friends! Here is Kit's newest embarkment, and while it isn't an actual story-story, it is a collection of oneshots. Centered around the five flights our favorite duo took during Season 7. So, four more chapters after this. Goal: Have it done before the 24th -the first day of school (hiss, boo). So, shall we? Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned anything, would there be a need for a disclaimer? **

**I.**

_Return Trip to Washington, D.C., United States of America from the Sahara Desert, Somalia, Horn of Africa: 7,822 miles_

The ground pitches forward and he's jolted into consciousness, hands flying up to break a fall that never comes, a knee-jerk reaction that disturbs his careful stillness and sends shock waves of pain radiating throughout his body. He registers his migraine most acutely. Every muscle inside him, every fiber that composes his aching being, protests with each movement he makes. And while, yes, remaining still had helped immensely, the apparent turbulence has cruelly ruined his efforts and now breathing even hurts . . . .

A heavy sigh shatters his internal pity-party and he stiffens –and it, too, _hurts_- out of fear that he's woken someone else up, but no. Gibbs is still situated exactly where he'd been however long ago, head tilted back slightly, mouth a grim line, eyes firmly closed. And suddenly the retired marine seems so old, his age showing through the dirt defined lines in his skin, the exhaustion contorting his face.

A low snore escapes McGee's throat and he, too, still sleeps, but it's fitful, his slumber, with eyes roaming beneath darkened lids, twitches and flinches every so often. The younger man is closer and it's apparent the bruises on his cheek, the deep gash along his temple, the collection of scratches marring his face. Dirt and grime and he's never realized how young McGee actually is.

He himself is feeling old, frankly. And damn, forty is going to hurt.

The prickly feeling of being watched reminds him that the sigh originated from neither man around him, leaving the only other occupant as a possible source. And, honestly, he doesn't want to look over at her, but the draw is so enticing . . . .

It is a nightmare, her being there with him.

It is a nightmare because when he wakes up and she isn't there, he's going to just . . . . cease.

His rational side tells him that he hurts too freaking much to be dreaming, that the roar of the engine and the shuddering of the hold, the pungent odor of sweat and stress and diesel fuel are all corroborating the fact that he's living reality, present time, wide awake.

Dark eyes peer tiredly at him from a few feet away. Dark tired eyes rimmed with dirt and filth and sand, dark tired eyes that are as guarded as they are open, as dead as they are alive. Dull, dark tired eyes.

She blinks, slowly, focusing on him and he thinks she must have been remembering –and he prays it is a distant, happy memory. And he prays that she even has a happy memory to cling to. And now he's occupied with her breathing, the steady rise and fall of her chest through the cafton shirt that has swallowed her whole.

Whole.

Whole, alive, and breathing. Pieces falling back into place with every lurch of the C-130.

Whole, alive, and breathing with him, staring at him. With him.

Her.

Here with him.

Him and her.

Her. Here.

In the rapidly flickering haze of too many thoughts, he wonders briefly if sodium pentathol is contributing to his scattered mind –

* * *

She doesn't sleep; she dozes, but does not sleep. She cannot.

Because if she sleeps, she'll wake up, they'll be gone.

And she'll be alone.

The aircraft hits a cruel pocket of air, sending the occupants of the steel belly reeling in their seats. McGee and Gibbs remain undisturbed, but watches through a fringe of lashes as Tony startles awake, his arms flying up to brace his fall. The straps binding him to his seat hold fast and the ground and his tired face do not meet and she sees the pain that contorts his features. He winces, attempting to stretch out, pressing chapped lips together to curb a groan of discomfort. And she can tell from the way his brows furrow and pucker that he has a bad headache and apparently their shattered partnership and prolonged separation have not diminished the acclimatization she had –has-toward him.

A dull ache emanates from the base of her skull, but its presence is oddly comforting in its familiarity. Her entire body feels heavy, leaden.

She wants to sleep, she honestly does, but sleeping is too dangerous; sleeping is too disappointing.

Because she knows she'll wake up.

Tony grimaces, shifting gingerly and she keeps her eyelids open, appraising him from a safe distance away. He's tried valiantly at some point in taming his hair, longer than when she last saw him, the windswept and tousled mess reminiscent of a porcupine. There's a definite shadowing around his jaw, coarse bristles and the thought of that texture makes her stomach hurt unpleasantly. He's dusty and sweaty and there is dried blood on his skin, a dark rust color that lines his forearm and is smeared faintly across his collarbone. His left eye is shaded with an ugly bruise and there is a deep gash across his temple . . . . He's watching Gibbs and McGee, studying them, decidedly pensive, and so she too looks at their companions, the other two thirds of her rescue team, and tries to ferret out the differences that Tony is searching for.

She finds it in Gibbs first. The worn lines on his thrown into starker relief with the dust. And his hair seems more ashen than silver, perhaps tarnished except she doesn't think she can recall what tarnished silver looks like. Tarnished souls and tarnished bodies, tarnished people and tarnished loyalties, yes. She knows too well how those look. But aged silver? She cannot recall . . . .

McGee is exhausted, slumped beside Tony, scraped and bruised and sore. Sweet, gentle McGee, kicked and beaten and she had been so very worried he was . . . . not asleep on that desert floor.

The heat and the noise and the sheer stress of it all is eroding on her, confusing her senses and numbing her mind. And Tony meets her eyes, green touching brown and she is aware of what he sees: An emptiness framed by limp curls and crisscrossed with too much . . . . experience.

She could close her eyes and sleep beneath his imploring gaze because she feels safe around him and that feeling, though foreign, is ridiculously appealing . . . .

She doesn't sleep and when he finally nods back off, she wonders if he's afraid to wake up.

If he's afraid he'll miss her.

She just might be too tired to care.

* * *

A/N: I really hope this is concise and easy to follow -they had just been through such a traumatic experience and surely they were exhausted. And really really confused with all the emotion and physical stress, their thoughts rolling around too fast to comprehend. Let me know if I'm making any sense? Kit.


	2. Random On Purpose

**A/N: Not entirely in love with how this turned out, but it's late and I'm trying to update daily (don't hold me to that, though). I get to see CATS tomorrow -I'm excited! So, double make my day if you want, and keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: True.**

**II.**

_In Route to Los Angeles, CA, United States of America from Washington, D.C., United States of America: 2,393 miles._

"The LA office has just informed me that Miss Sciuto has been kidnapped by the serial killer she's been tracking. It doesn't look good." Vance delivers the news with all the gusto of an underpaid correspondent, face a mask of indifference as pure, unadulterated rage flickers across four pairs of eyes in varying degrees of intensity. No one moves and McGee just may have stopped breathing as DiNozzo's fists clench at his sides and Ziva battles the impulse to shoot the Director at his perch on the mezzanine.

He's only aware of the steady thump of his heart beat, the loud roar of blood in his ears.

Thump. . . .

Thump. . . .

Thump. . . .

"DiNozzo, David. Airport, flight leaves in half an hour. Go. Now." And Gibbs infiltrates the sound barrier with sharp, broken sentences and green eyes flicker up to meet ice blue where the older man stands at the middle landing on the staircase, staring down into the bullpen. McGee has already disappeared into MTAC and it doesn't take anymore prompting for two partners left to do as they're told.

Heavy elevator doors shush closed and Tony decides that he hates Los Angeles.

* * *

She doesn't read or listen to music or devote any attention to the action scene unfolding on the overhead screen because these things seem too commonplace for the tragedy that likely unfolds somewhere on the west coast.

They're currently over Oklahoma, perhaps Texas, and her rational side interjects that it doesn't matter. Because while they are close, they are still too far away.

Tony's hand suddenly wraps gently around both of hers and only then does she register that stinging sensation in her fingertips. Glancing at her lap, she realizes she's picked and bit her cuticles, leaving tiny cuts, while two of her nails have been torn at the tip, leaving jagged edges that are considerably shorter than the rest of her nails. She casts a sideways look at Tony and remembers that he's still holding her hands.

She startles them both when she snatches her hands away, recoiling from his touch as if pricked. His sharp inhale denotes his surprise at her hostile movement and he returns, slightly wounded, to his side of the armrest, staring pointedly forward, and she feels guilty. The silence between them is oppressive and granted the other passengers are certainly not _loud_, the unspoken disturbance between them is difference, uncharacteristic, _wrong_. The muteness of the surrounding strangers is borne of foreignism and unfamiliarity, the businessmen sitting in front of her are united by the single commonality that they share a flight and nothing significantly more . . . . Hers and Tony's lack of conversation is the product of the gorge that dire concern and morbid apprehension have formed, and further separation is wedged by her scalding withdrawal moments earlier. Neither speak because both optimism and its pessimistic counterpart are imprecise arts and it is easier to cope with no expectations.

His phone chirps in his pocket and he mumbles his excuse, rising from his seat, seeking the privacy toward the front of the plane.

Her heart lifts in her chest at the sight of the smile swelling on his face, unforced and utter genuine and it lights up the darkness, chasing the fear and anger away, banishing all negative energy away. He slides back into his seat, turning to face her and she sighs in relief before he can even offer the update.

"They found Abby –she's fine, a little shaken up, but fine. McGee says Gibbs is relieved -still pissed, not at Abby, or anyone really- but relieved. They're waiting an MTAC feed right now so they can talk to Abby and possibly calm the boss down a bit."

"And the dirt bag?"

"Dead. Hanna and Callen took him out."

Ziva sighs again, slumping back in her seat, a liberated grin curving her lips. Subconsciously, she tilts her head to rest against Tony's shoulder and when he doesn't angle away, she decides it's okay to stay like that, leaning against him.

She feels his voice vibrate against her cheek as he says, "I know. It sucks when you think you've lost someone for good."

And she nods, replying softly, "Yes. But we did not lose Abby."

_And you did not lose me._


	3. Jetlag

**A/N: Frankly, this is my least favorite thing I have written in a long time. Urgh. Jetlag, while one of my favorite episodes, is a pain in the booty to write. Urgh. And while I may very well end up rewriting this chapter at a later date (yeah right, but it is SO tempting), I wanted to go ahead and post it so we can meet our deadline. There will be a chapter tomorrow and then the final one on Monday night and I head back to the sacred halls of learning. Yup. On a lighter note, my vacation was splendid and I did get quite a bit written on another one of my projects -and I will share. Eventually. I'm holding out on you guys until the twenty-six days leading up to the premire. (Twenty-six. Anyone want to take a guess as to what this project is based around? Winner gets a chapter dedication. . . . ) I'll shut up now and let you read, feel free to criticize and send loads of ? if it doesn't make much sense (because my mind sometimes doesn't translate well onto paper -er, screen). Much love, keep the peace, until tomorrow, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Sure.**

**III.**

_Return Trip to Washington, D.C., United States of America from Paris, France: 3,835.5 miles_

He's staring at SkyMall for lack of something to occupy himself with –he's been on the plane for hours and hours and the day's excitement has reached its quota: the assassination attempt unsuccessful and the killer caught, cuffed, and stowed safely away from the whistle blower and now he has nothing to do.

"There is no way you are reading that, Tony" she acknowledges, sliding in beside him, eyeing the magazine open on his lap, glossy pages filled with foreign sales pitches. He casts her a sideways glance, informing her smoothly, "I'm looking at the pictures."

"Ah."

"Ah yes. . . . Nora sleeping?" And at his inquiry they both look over at the seats across the aisle where their charge dozes, slumped against the window, head pillowed on Tony's jacket, oxygen mask settled over her nose. He has to admit, she looks remarkably better now that her color has returned and the swelling's gone down though the sheer exhaustion from stress and, most likely, the anaphylaxis is still evident on her face.

"It has been a long day," Ziva says with a nod. "A very long day."

He purses his lips, stares at her for a long moment before hedging lightly, "Not all of it was bad, though."

He watches his allusion dawn in her eyes, a pleased thrill shooting through him as he notices the edges of her mouth quirk upwards. "You are right," she amends slowly, "There were parts of today that were quite . . . . nice." Waking up, curled against him, was very nice; falling asleep to gentle breathing and comforting warmth, the cocoon of his familiar smell –was very very surprisingly nice.

"Nice," Tony repeats with a chuckle, leaning back against the seat, rolling his shoulders. Then, sobering slightly, "I know we said we should leave Paris in Paris-"

"Tony," and her voice holds a soft warning.

"Listen," he urges, ignoring her interruption, continuing on heedlessly, "I'm just saying maybe we shouldn't make this so final . . . ."

She emits a sigh, closing her eyes, rubbing her temple. "Why," she wonders, "are we discussing this now? On a plane?"

"Because neither of us can run away when we're (#) feet in the air. And there're witnesses." And it's the most obvious explanation in the world.

"What are you asking me, Tony? If we can," she lowers her voice, "_sleep together_ more often?"

"No!" he whispers fiercely. "I'm asking if I was to bring a pizza and movie to your place one evening, would you let me in?"

"I do not want to be some . . . ." she flounders for the right wording, arriving at, "booby call-"

"Booty call," he corrects, an almost automatic reflex that earns him a glare as compensation. And before she can continue on her self-preservation rant, he keeps up his tide of words, talking quickly, quietly explaining, "I'm not asking for sex, Ziva-"

"Then what are you asking for, exactly?"

"I'm getting there! I'm asking if we can continue with what we were doing before Paris, a couple nights of normalcy, you know? Dinner, drinks, a movie, good night, see you tomorrow at work. What I'm asking is if I show up tomorrow night with takeout and a movie, _would you let me in_?"

She stares at him, calculating his face, the emotions flickering through his eyes. He's all together both serious and genuine and she understands, distantly yet acutely, what he means. They've only recently re-achieved the type of relationship that they had lost some time ago, now on a level where they're comfortable around the other again, able to joke and tease and talk without the threat of misplaced trusts, uneasy feelings, not-yet-banished ghosts. Now they've found themselves close to their long absent status quo, however the partnership has even newer boundaries expanding to encompass the more intimate nature of their coexistence. Because they were both capable of sharing a Parisian bed platonically and they didn't.

Share a bed together, yes. But platonically? Not so much.

She refuses to acknowledge her newfound understanding in the term making love.

She can sense his reservation, his hesitance that perhaps their one-time encounter has destroyed their reconstruction efforts and so she releases her indignation at her former assumptions and says, softly, "Do not bother bringing takeout. I am making lasagna. You may, however, bring wine and a movie. Fair?"

He offers her a sheepish smile, "Fair."

Conversation then lapses into companionable silence as both lean back in their respective seats, Tony returning to his perusal of airline periodicals and Ziva her vigilant guarding of Nora.

She wonders idly if this is how Jenny and Gibbs played out. And then she remembers and makes certain to _not_ forget her coat when disembarking from the plane.

**A/N: *?***


	4. Mother's Day

**A/N: I really actually like this one. And since everyone (or at least those who reviewed) liked the previous chapter okay, I'll let it change -though I will probably write an alternate. Maybe. Meh. Anyway, here's today's installment and tomorrow will be the final. As for the guessing contest, no one got it and that is partially do to my crappy hinting/riddling/explaining skills. So here is the gist of the hint: 26. There, maybe less confusing now? No? Yes? Yeah-sure-whatever? I love you guys, seriously. I'll shut up now, keep the peace and much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: For the less astute.**

**IV.**

_In Route to Residence of Martin Hendricks, Somewhere in Arizona, United States of America from Washington, D.C., United States of America: 1,992 miles. _

He offers a smile to the flight attendant, a petite redhead with cherry-red lips twisted up in a flirty grin, and she reciprocates the gesture, asking breezily, "How are you, sir?"

"No complaints. And yourself?" She was hoping for something a little more substantial than 'no complaints,' but before she can even articulate a playful response, the woman beside him emits a frustrated grunt as she struggles with the overhead luggage compartment and the coquettish stewardess loses all hopes of the engaging the good-looking man in conversation. In fact, he's already forgotten her standing there, his attention redirected at the newcomer as he shoves an anonymous suitcase over to accommodate the added duffel. A thankful nod and the woman slides into her seat beside the window, fishing her seatbelt out from between the cushions.

A last ditch attempt, "Anything you might be needed, sir?" And he glances down at her as if remembering she was there.

"Uh, no thank you," he replies politely. "Ziva?" And Ziva looks up, smiling graciously, but shaking her head in declinement as her partner takes his seat beside her.

"Have nice flight," is bestowed upon the pair and the attendant retreats to the front of the plane.

* * *

He's reclining slightly in his seat, utilizing the headrest with closed eyes as she sits beside him, shoulders brushing as they share the armrest and she reads the paperback splayed open in her lap.

"You did not flirt with her," she acknowledges lightly without glancing up and a moment later the whisper of paper denotes her progression in her book.

He tilts his head toward her, opening one eye to regard her confusedly. "Who?" And he sounds so genuine in his naivety that she almost believes him. Mahogany eyes flicker up to study him with a curiosity that quickly escalates to amused surprise as she realizes he honestly has no idea what she's talking about. "The flight attendant," she informs him, mock awe diffused into her voice to mask her legitimate incredulity.

He seems wholly unperturbed at his obliviousness to this apparent encounter with the stewardess. "Guess I wasn't paying attention." But he is now and she has no idea why.

"She was cashing you in," she reiterates, trying to get him to grasp the gravity of his ignorance.

"Checking out," he corrects automatically, without even consciously registering the words leaving his mouth. "Not cashing in, I not a rain check."

Never mind the rain check, she thinks he needs a _brain_ check.

"You are so weird," she tells him, returning to her book. And she feels him shrug his indifference at her affirmation.

* * *

Neither of them notice when the plane begins rolling away from the loading gate, but only realizing the imminent departure when the jet lines up on the runway and the friendly stewardess begins the monotonous repertoire of airline safety regulations.

She doesn't know why but when the engines begin to roar and the aircraft's momentum pushes her back against the seat, she reaches out, her fingers curling around Tony's hand. And she only gains awareness of the contact when their in the air and even though this certainly isn't the first time she's ever held his hand, she finds the fact that takeoff, a moment she finds oddly exhilarating, prompted her into grasping his hand.

It occurs to her several heartbeats later that she hasn't let go and he doesn't seem to mind.

* * *

At an altitude of 39,000 feet, Tony procures his laptop, balancing the device on his knees and plucking Ziva's book out of her lap at her indignant cry of, "Hey!" Ignoring her, he tucks the book between him and the armrest dividing his seat and the aisle, farthest away from his partner as currently possible. With a flourish and several clicks, opening credits begin to roll silently across the screen.

"Tony," and her voice is that of carefully measured patience as she glares at him.

"Hey now," he placates, "I'm just trying to offer entertainment."

"I was reading."

"Yeah and it was boring."

"For you," she snaps, but he can hear that her heart truly isn't in the argument because he isn't really far off the mark in proclaiming the subject tedious.

"But I brought something you'd enjoy," he wheedles, swinging a pair of headphones idly between them.

"What, dare I ask?"

"A classic-"

"Of course-"

"1957. Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas-"

"Tony-"

"As Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday in Gunfight at the O.K. Corral . . . . It seemed appropriate, we are bound for Arizona."

She stares at him for a moment before asking, "What makes you think I'll enjoy a cowboy movie?"

"_Gunfight_, Ziva. _Duh_." And it is the most obvious answer in the world.

* * *

The laptop is settled across both their legs, a feat only possible with the shared armrest tucked between the seats backs and out of the way. Of course he only remembered to bring on set of earphones, so she has the right bud and he the left and to prevent the irritating occurrence of the buds popping out repeatedly, she finally surrendered ten minutes into the film to resting her head against his shoulder, leaving the headphone cords unstrained.

The arrangement is actually rather comfortable.

* * *

When he notices her nodding off during the movie, he decides he can avoid a car-key induced wrestling match if he wagers that she can drive if she stays awake.

They both fall asleep before the end credits roll, but he gives her the benefit of the doubt and lets her drive.

It does make her smile.

**A/N: :^)?**


	5. Rule 51

**A/N: Don't even point out the deadline that I've long surpassed. . . . . Here we go, just in time for the premier. Let me know what you think, this one was troublesome. Much love and keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Nada.**

**V.**

_Return Trip to Washington, D.C., United States of America from Somewhere in Mexico: 1518.8 miles_

They've already hammered out a relatively concrete plan: Move quickly and quietly because, once again, they're on borrowed time.

And he's beginning to hate non-sanctioned black ops in foreign countries against hostile parties and the wholly unknown. After all, he's not an idiot and the last time a similar scenario played out, they very nearly died. This time, well, almost has to run out eventually –it's inevitable.

He fixes her with a look, one that conveys too much emotion and the feelings that simmer beneath his ocean gaze are nearly blinding in their intensity, the sum of it all close to too much and it scares her when she identifies with what all he's not saying.

He will not be leaving without Gibbs.

And he'll be damned if he leaves without her this time too.

She's already predisposed to not re-boarding aircrafts and he doesn't think he'll be able to take not having her there again. Eight months in two years and that's enough separation for a lifetime, thank you very much.

_I'm not leaving without you either. _

And neither of them do leave because the plane's mighty maw yawns open and the object to their retrieval is standing there, frowning in the sunlight, dusty and pissed, but alive and _there_.

He decides Marines must be like boomerangs.

Israeli ex-assassins? Not so much.

* * *

Tony's solid presence beside her keeps her anchored and prevents her from dwelling on the uncanny parallelism of similar flight with the same bitter silence from the not-so-distant past. Her hand is warm in his underneath the careful cover of the blanket.

The rules ought to span into the hundreds before this entire whatever-it-is is over.

The pilot's disembodied voice heeds them of impending turbulence and the irony there runs deep, a foreshadowing of what's to come.

She hopes that the cosmic heads-up is a good sign.

* * *

It takes him a moment to gather his bearings and put them in an order that offers some semblance to coherency. The monotonous drone of the turboprop quartet reverberates around the metal belly of the C-130 he finds himself in and here is when reality comes flooding back in.

Mexico.

Franks.

Bodies.

Reynosa cartel.

He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, finally realizing that the mother of all migraines currently has his skull under siege and that the hit he took to the jaw is the cause of dull throb in his face.

And damn he needs coffee.

He stretches out as best he can, the canvas sling he's sitting in inhibiting satisfactory movement. He joints pop in protest and he would wager he has half of a Mexican beach residing on his skin, but his comfort is the least of his troubles.

His team is in danger.

The plane pitches forward and echoes of a turbulence warning ricochet around his headspace, but he can't quite grasp the thought process . . . . A shift in his peripheral vision draws his attention to the two partners dozing across from him.

Tony's head is tilted back, resting against the canvas netting that comprises their seats. His once impeccable suit is going to need a serious steaming to chase out the wrinkles and creases that have fissured across his pressed shirt. And he could have sworn the younger man had been wearing a tie . . . . . Ziva dozes beside him, her cheek pillowed on Tony's shoulder, her mouth slightly gaping as a soft snore escapes her throat. At some point she's taken her hair down and it now tumbles loosely around her shoulders and face and Tony. Their sharing a complimentary blanket, the cheap fleece spread over both their laps and if it was anyone else, he might think it sweet.

But it's Tony and Ziva and yet . . . . He cannot find the energy to be pissed off.

Because they've finally found each other and he certainly can't fault them for that. They love each other and he loves them and if nobody loved anybody they wouldn't be in this tangled mess. Because there would be nothing (no one) for Reynosa to barter with. He could simply take bullet and be done with it and not have to worry himself or anyone else.

Instead, he reaches a renewed conviction: This is exactly what he must protect at all costs. His team and his family, these people that he cares about against better judgment. They cannot be collateral damage to his transgressions, Reynosa cannot get to them.

He couldn't save Shannon and Kelly all those years ago, but he will save his people now. And if that costs him his life, he will gladly pay . . . .

* * *

"**This is 150 grains of lead lined belief hitting your heart at the speed of a synaptic impulse . . . . This is life with the safety off . . . . . This is love . . . . . **

**Fire at will."**

**FIN**


End file.
